


Perfect

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Second Kiss, post-Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When first kisses aren't so perfect, the only solution is to have a second one.</p><p>***Edited a bit since posting, after an idea came to me I just had to add***</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

 

 

John stood happily in the kitchen entryway of 221b, gazing out upon the New Year’s Eve revellers.  It had been a long time since he had been this happy.  He certainly had not been this happy last New Year’s Eve…

He frowned.  No, this would not do.  That was then, and this was now.  Sherlock was back where he belonged, after putting John through hell for eighteen months of course, but that was no longer important.  He was _here_ , and John would never stop being grateful for that.  Even though a month had passed and Sherlock had yet to apologise.  John certainly wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.  He had only ever heard Sherlock apologise twice: once, to Molly – and John was pretty sure he had just been shamed into that one, - and once, to himself from Bart’s rooftop.  That last one had just been part of Sherlock’s sham, so that one hadn’t counted either.  So, really, John had never heard a sincere apology fall from Sherlock’s lips.

But as he had told himself earlier, none of that mattered anymore. 

As he stood and observed, John was mildly amused to be reminded of the fact that so many of their friends and acquaintances had paired up over the past year and a half.  Molly stood by the sitting room window with a champagne glass in hand, happily engaged in conversation with the man she had arrived with; a man who was none other than Mycroft Holmes.  That one was something John couldn’t have imagined in his wildest nightmares.  After finding out they were the only two who had known Sherlock was alive, it made a sort of twisted sense.  Their landlady was ensconced on the sofa with her beau of six months, a lovely retired gentleman she had met at her Thursday night book club.  Sherlock had given her his blessing after assuring her that he wasn’t, nor ever had been, married.  Greg Lestrade brought Louise Mortimer; the two of them had struck up a friendship after he had taken her statement at Baskerville, and they had eventually started dating.   Even Henry Knight had come with a chap he had been introduced to by the owners of the Cross Keys Inn.

John started to feel a little bit wistful.  Up until two months ago he had been seeing a lovely nurse he had met at the surgery.  Mary and he had connected rather easily.  They had a lot in common, they made each other laugh, and there was never any pressure to take the relationship to the next level.  Unfortunately, John was at a stage where he was ready for something more substantial, and he knew that Mary wasn’t it.  They had parted on amicable terms when Mary had transferred to another surgery.  John had no regrets; however, it might have been nice to have had her here with him tonight.  Just to have someone special to share the occasion with, when everyone else was coupled up.  Everyone but him and Sherlock.

As if he could actually hear John’s thoughts, the man himself appeared at his elbow.  “Fifteen minutes until midnight,” the deep baritone voice rumbled.  “Are you having a good time, John?”

John smiled at his friend.  “Yes, I am.  Are you?”

Sherlock made a face as he tore his eyes away from John to scan their sitting room.  ‘I loathe these events, generally.  However, after the situation I found myself in a year ago, I have come to appreciate the familiarity and comfort provided by them. “

John lowered his eyes at Sherlock’s reference to his time away.  He didn’t want to know what Sherlock’s situation had been on New Year’s Eve last year, and he wasn’t going to ask.  The silence spun out for a few moments before Sherlock cleared his throat.  “John,” he began, lowering his voice, “I owe you a thousand apologies.”

John turned to him in surprise. “What?”

Sherlock scowled.  “You heard me, I’m not saying it again.”

“You’re actually saying… that you’re sorry?”

“Yes, I am.  Although not for saving your life, of course.  For what you had to go through, though... yes, that I am apologising for.  I didn’t know you’d be so affected.”

John stilled as his eyes continued to search Sherlock’s face.  He said calmly, “Do you remember how you felt when Irene faked her death?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You barely knew her.  How could you not know that losing my best friend would affect me a hundred times worse?”

Sherlock averted his eyes in shame.

John smiled as he returned to watching their guests.  “An apology is not necessary, Sherlock; it would be redundant.  I forgave you the minute I opened the door to see you on my doorstep, alive and mostly whole.  I asked for a miracle, and you gave it to me.  Everything is back to what it should be.”

Sherlock stared at him as if he couldn’t believe the person standing next to him could actually exist.  John felt his scrutiny, but ignored it.  He was used to it by now.

The two friends stood side by side, arms crossed and shoulders touching, as the countdown started on the television.   Soon the flat was ringing with a chorus of “ _Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one....HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”,_ noisemakers were honkingand four couples were snogging.

John stretched out his hand.  “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”  Sherlock ignored John’s hand in favour of taking John’s head gently between his palms, leaning down and placing his cool dry lips on John’s own. 

John let out a breath of surprise, which caused Sherlock to jerk back and hastily remove his hands.  Sherlock’s eyes were wide and filled with fear as they raked over John’s face.  Before John could react any further, his friend swirled around and bolted for his room, slamming the door behind him.  No one else even noticed over all the commotion that was going on.  John rubbed his face and sighed.

Naturally, Sherlock didn’t come out again, leaving John to close down the party and do the cleaning up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was four in the morning and John was still camped out on the sofa, watching the dying flames and glowing embers in the fireplace.  There had been no sound from Sherlock’s room since he had disappeared four  hours ago.   The only sound audible in the entire flat was the pinging of wet snow on the window.   John’s cheek rested on his fist as he stared at the fire.   The flickering flames were hypnotic, and he found his eyelids starting to grow heavy.  He finally gave in, closing his eyes and drifting off.

His eyes flew open when he heard the creak of Sherlock’s door.  He sat up straight when he saw Sherlock stride out with a suit bag draped over his arm and an overnight bag swung over his shoulder.  Sherlock abruptly stopped when he saw him.

“You’re still awake,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” John replied.

Sherlock waved a hand.  “Don’t mind me,” he said as he threw his suit bag onto the armchair and continued on into the bathroom.   The sounds of him rummaging around in the cabinets and cupboards sent a spike of panic up John’s spine.  He jerked to his feet.

“What are you doing?” he called out, despising the quiver in his voice.

“Don’t be alarmed, John,” Sherlock said as he came back into the sitting room with his bag full of toiletries.  “I’ll only be gone for a few days.  I was going to leave you a note.  Could you try and hold off contacting me?  I need to think.”

John tensed.  His voice held a deadly tone when he spoke.  “You were going to leave me a note, were you?  The last time you did that, things didn’t end so well, did they?”

Sherlock winced.  “John, I’ll be back…”

“Where are you going?  How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know,” Sherlock replied.  He finally spared a glance in John’s direction, and John’s heart stuttered.  For lack of a better term, he would have described Sherlock’s expression as… lost.

“Sherlock.”   John took a steady step towards him and grasped his wrist.  Sherlock let his bag slip to the floor as he let himself be pulled towards his friend.  “You don’t have to be afraid.  Can’t you tell that I feel the same way you do?”

John slowly placed one hand on Sherlock’s hip and the other on his arm, as if trying not to scare away a wild animal.   Sherlock blinked.  “How do you feel, John?” he asked huskily.  “Tell me.”

John laughed.  “Oh no, you massive git.  You’re the one who made the first move, you first.”

“I don’t want to presume…”

“No, you don’t want to run the risk that we aren't on the same page.” John sighed and stepped away, releasing his loose hold on his friend.  “You’re a bloody menace, you know that?  Fine, if we can’t trust each other, we’ll both have to do this at the same time.  Take out your phone,” he ordered as he took his own out of his pocket and switched it on.  Sherlock cocked his head inquisitively, eyes never leaving John’s face as he put his hand inside his jacket and retrieved his mobile.

“Okay, now we’re both going to type out our answers to 'how do you feel about me', and we’re going to send them at the same time.  That way no backing out, and no misunderstanding.  Agreed?”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. 

“Alright then.  Get to typing.” 

Two sets of thumbs swiftly typed out their statements.   They both raised their eyes at the same time.

“Ready?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

“Alright.  Hit send now.”

Only one text alert sounded.  John frowned.  “You bloody coward,” he accused.

Sherlock’s face went white as a sheet as he looked at his phone, then softened when he read John’s message.  “No, John, I… I seem to have sent mine to the wrong number.”

John’s eyes widened.  Then he giggled.  “Oh god.. you sent it to Lestrade, didn’t you?”

 _Ping._ Sherlock’s expression turned to horror.  “No, it’s much worse.”

 

I return the sentiment, dear brother.     –MH

John tried to stifle his laughter.  “Mycroft.  You just proclaimed your undying love to Mycroft, didn’t you?”

Sherlock scowled.  He glanced at John’s message again, as if he couldn’t believe what was typed there.

 

**I love you.**

He opened up his sent message and showed John his screen.

 

_I love you.  –SH_

John huffed out a laugh.  “Seriously, you signed it?  You really are an idiot, you know that?”

Sherlock grinned so widely it threatened to crack his face in two.  

“Does this mean I can kiss you again?”

“You ridiculous man.  God yes.”

Sherlock stepped back into John’s personal space.  He pulled the doctor close and rested their foreheads together.  John smiled happily, one arm slipping around his friend and one hand cradling an attractive cheekbone.  “So what are you waiting for?” he whispered.

Sherlock smiled, then dipped his head and covered John’s mouth with his own.  This time it wasn’t a dry, cool and brief kiss.  This time it was moist, warm and languid.  This time it wasn’t shy and tentative.  This time it was brave and eager.

This time, it was perfect.

  

 


End file.
